THIS FRIDAY we are hitting the nightlife in Riyadh, not that there is much of it, especially for women. Lea has contacted one of her expat friends. She has been working in Riyadh for years, and suggests we visit a wet compound – one that has a restaurant that serves alcohol. Smartly dressed under our abayas, and with much excitement at our first night out, we bundle into the waiting taxi. The buildings are lit up in a myriad colours. As drab as the city can seem in the day, it is beautiful at night.
We have a problem; my iqama, without which I cannot visit another compound, has not yet been issued. My passport, which would also be accepted, is being withheld. I ask the cab driver to take us to an internet cafe. We pull up to one that is completely empty. As I walk in, Lea following closely, two men walk hastily towards us. “No! You go!” says the younger one, closest to us. The older man seems more tolerant, but says, “You are not allowed in here. It is a men’s only establishment, please go.”
We are forced to retreat. I am determined, though. If I don’t get a copy of my passport, which I have in an old email to the princess, I am going nowhere tonight. We are ushered out, but I ask the younger man whether I could print one page off an email, as the place is empty. He seems insulted as he slams the door behind me.
Regardless of age or marital status, a woman is required to have a male guardian. He may be her father, husband, uncle, brother – or even her own son. A woman cannot travel, attend university, work, or marry without her guardian’s permission. In some cases, a woman cannot receive major medical treatment without the permission of her guardian.
The quality of life of a Saudi woman depends entirely on the male members of her family. If a woman is lucky enough to come from an open family, she will enjoy a free education, be encouraged to work if she chooses, have a say in who she marries, travel the world, and come and go as she pleases. If she comes from a more conservative family, she may not be allowed to do any of those things.
Next, we inquire at the international hotel on the corner. Friendly staff at reception lead me into their back office after I explain my urgency. Within two minutes, I have a copy of my passport.
We eventually reach the compound gates. It looks like a war zone. Since the compound bombings a decade before, most compounds have a heavy military presence and this one is no different. Every part of the taxi gets searched.
After passing through an office, we are thoroughly screened and our iqamas and the copy of my passport are held back. With permission, and after our visit is documented in two different large books, we are free to go. We walk out the other side of the small office, through a dark car park towards the lights.
The place is small and cosy with candles creating a magical ambience. Trellises with fake greenery afford some privacy between the tables. An Italian balladeer belts out tragic love songs from the speakers mounted on the ceiling. Small groups talk animatedly amid bursts of laughter. The only table available is situated in the centre of the restaurant. Not one man there fails to notice Lea’s blonde hair. As most of the expats are from Middle Eastern countries, blonde hair is unusual and is leered at openly.
The taste of a gin and tonic is heaven on my tongue but heavy on the wallet. At SR40, it works out to R85 a drink. This doesn’t deter us though. The Italian music creates a feeling of nostalgia that increases exponentially with each gin. Suddenly I feel invincible. I will make it in this crazy place!
As we are about to leave, a portly chef scuttles over to our table and suggests to Lea that we try the home made wine. At SR30 for half a glass, it does not come cheap but we all think, what the hell, in for a penny, in for a pound.
We arrive back at the compound, lighter in mood and in pocket and feeling much more positive than after the Starbucks experience of the previous week. Now I feel ready for the week ahead.